He’s a morning person.
She is not.
It is sometimes a source of much consternation.
He stretches, causing his toes to poke out from under the bottom of the sheet.
He wiggles them.
He’s not sure why.
Celebrating their freedom, he supposes.
She dreams a dreaming noise.
He hopes it is about him.
He rolls towards her.
His breath catches.
Her naked back.
Crisp white sheet covering halfway up
He lifts his head a little off the pillow to take a closer look at how the sheet comes in at her waist.
And out over her hip.
Nature’s most perfect form.
Shadows don’t move, but fade, as if the gradually growing light is right on cue.
He sees every strand of dark hair cascading over her shoulder. And every freckle they endeavor to cover.
Love isn’t blind. It has fucking Superman vision.
He wants to touch.
Oh my, how he wants to touch.
But like a pebble tossed with the best of intentions into a glassy pond, he has no idea what ripples it might cause.
For now he’ll bask.
For now he’ll take it all in.
For now he’ll let love and pride and gratitude and absolute burning desire decide amongst themselves who is steering the ship today.